


Mistaken Identity

by GrrraceUnderfire



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Anxiety, Fear, Friendship, Gen, Lies, Stuttering, Stuttering Peter Newkirk, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: People who stutter often struggle to say their own names, and Peter Newkirk is no exception. In a moment of panic, he  figures a way around it, and finds himself in a web of lies as a result. I didn't intend to write a new story at this time, but some things have been eating away at me, and this story is the result. This is meant to be a feel-good story abut the struggle of being alone and the power of friendship to make things better.
Relationships: Andrew Carter & Peter Newkirk
Comments: 15
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

Hogan woke calmly and easily, like he was gliding through a swimming pool and had just poked his head above the surface and felt cool air hit his face. He glanced around. Bright light was flowing into the room. He remembered resting his eyes for just a moment. _Grapes of Wrath_ lay open, spine up, on his chest to remind him that he’d been reading when he nodded off. He consulted his wristwatch. It was 11:37 AM, not even lunch time yet.

He’d conked out. No surprise there. Last night’s sabotage mission at the waterworks had gone past 2 AM, and he was up at 5:30 for rollcall. He needed the rest. His guys had let him have it.

They must be tiptoeing around like mice, because it was quiet out there. Maybe some of them were napping too. Carter and LeBeau had been with him; they must be beat. Or maybe they were all outside, off on the playing fields on the west side of camp, or out on a work party. He frowned. They would have woken him up for that.

He laid the book aside, stretched his limbs, then bounced down from his bunk, landing on the balls of his feet and taking another moment to stretch. Then he pulled open the rough-hewn door to the main barracks room.

Hogan could smell coffee on the stove—thank goodness for LeBeau. There he was, snoozing on his bunk, back to the room, oblivious to the world. Carter was in the same state of repose, only with one arm and leg hanging off the bunk, begging to be stepped on. Hogan snickered.

Only one other person was present, and he was seated on his top bunk, curled up tightly, his back to the wall, smoking a cigarette and apparently deep in thought. Newkirk looked over as Hogan entered the barracks and sat upright—the sitting-down version of coming to attention, Hogan thought with a smile.

“Can I get you anything, Gov?” Newkirk asked. He had landed like a cat on the floor, and was ambling toward Hogan.

“No, no, I just need some coffee. You want some?” He gestured with one of the few “real” mugs in the place. It was in perfect condition, and it was his, always set aside in its own place on the shelf. That wasn’t his choice; it was his men’s. The rest of them drank from an assortment of chipped mugs and cups and old Klim tins. But they all thought the Gov deserved something special, and they saw to it that he had it.

There were several things in life that Newkirk never said no to, and a cigarette and coffee were high on the list. He reached over to pour his own, but Hogan shooed his hand away. He poured out a second cup in the least-chipped mug he could find and handed it to Newkirk.

“Thanks,” Newkirk said, dipping his head as he spoke.

“Where is everyone?” Hogan asked as they both took seats at the table. “Other than our two Sleeping Beauties, I mean.”

“Olsen and Garlotti rrrrrounded up a b-baseball match, Sir,” Newkirk said. “Everyone went. Kinch is p-p-pitching and Baker’s mmminding the radio.” He lit a cigarette and stared into the distance.

“Game, not match,” Hogan replied with an impish grin.

Newkirk flicked his eyes over to Hogan and gave him a weak smile. “Game, of course. Sssorry, Sir,” he replied, but then he retreated into his faraway glance.

That wasn’t like Newkirk, Hogan thought at once. He usually had a wisecrack or two when it came to the sports lingo of their two countries divided by a common language. He’d been known to go off on highly amusing tirades on every sport played in camp, except the only one that truly mattered to him—soccer, or football as he called it. Finding ways to keep everyone laughing was part of who Newkirk was. He hadn’t even taken a swing at the phrase “Sleeping Beauties,” and he normally would have whacked that one out of the ballpark.

Hogan looked Newkirk over. He didn’t seem tired or rundown. He hadn’t been on a mission in three nights, and he was an expert napper when he needed to be. No, his low mood looked like the curtain of gloom that periodically descended over him. Hogan had seen it before. He needed to dig, because the well-being of his men was his responsibility, even if he didn’t particularly enjoy playing amateur psychologist.

“You let them all go off without you?” Hogan asked.

“Yes,” Newkirk said. The only information Hogan got from that response was that Newkirk was not going to volunteer information. Ask a yes-no question, and you get a yes-no answer, he reminded himself.

“I know baseball’s not your game, but I think you’d be pretty good at it,” Hogan said casually. “I’ve seen you playing catch with Carter.”

Newkirk shrugged. Nothing, Hogan thought.

“Who are they playing?” Hogan asked.

“Anyone who wants to j-j-join in,” Newkirk replied. “A pickup game, I think Kinch called it.”

“Hmm. Is anyone you know playing for the other side?”

“Not really,” Newkirk said. Another yes-no question, Hogan scolded himself. But he noticed how Newkirk began to bite his lip and decided to try that question again.

“Well, then, who IS playing for the other side?”

Newkirk shrugged. “Lots of people. Barracks 24, mostly.”

Well, there it was. Probably, anyway. Two days previously, Hogan had sent Newkirk and Carter to check out the newly arrived men in the camp’s two newest barracks. The goal was to report back on the personalities and skills of potential new team members. He’d sent Carter to size them up because Carter could get anyone talking, and he’d sent Newkirk with him because Newkirk could listen. He was highly observant and had knack for figuring people out.

Carter and Newkirk made two separate visits to the new barracks over two days, came back, and reported their findings to Addison, who was compiling information at Hogan's request. And that was that. Carter had stopped by Hogan's office to mention that Newkirk had been "edgy" about talking to strangers, but that was no surprise; "edgy" was Newkirk's middle name. Everything else had gone according to plan, “more or less,” Carter had reported. Hogan had been too busy planning the mission to the waterworks to probe any deeper; he had to trust his men to bring up really urgent matters. He would review their findings about the new prisoners in a day or two and regroup with them then.

Now he was wondering if he’d missed something. “Have you spoken to anyone from Barracks 24?” Hogan asked.

Newkirk barked out a laugh. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “Prats.”

Hogan leaned forward and latched onto the arm that Newkirk was resting on the table. “You just met them yesterday, Newkirk. How did they get under your skin so fast?”

Newkirk’s eyes were misty, and he looked angry as he pulled his arm back. He went silent.

“Can you answer me?” Hogan asked quietly.

“I’m trying to think!” Newkirk snapped. “Sir,” he added hastily.

Hogan stood. “OK, take your time. You can think in my office,” he said. “Come on.”

Hogan prodded Newkirk ahead of him. Following along, he felt like he was looking at an unwilling schoolboy, dragging himself to the principal’s office. Once inside, Hogan waved Newkirk to sit down on the bed. He grabbed his chair and straddled it backwards, his knees practically touching Newkirk’s. He waited for the Englishman to start, knowing it could take several minutes.

Newkirk sat clutching himself and biting his lip fiercely. He was close to tears and struggling to stop them somehow; he just hoped Hogan didn’t see it. Once he got himself under control, he began speaking, slowly.

“I d-did everything I should have. I told them right at the start that I st-st-stammer, so they wouldn’t be surprised. And nobody laughed. But then I couldn’t ss-, ah, ss-, ah, sss, ah…” He left out a big exasperated breath, and started over. “I couldn’t ss-ah, ssss-sss-ssssay my name.”

Newkirk’s difficulties in saying his own name had mystified Hogan until Newkirk explained it to him. Most of the time he could find a synonym for a hard word, but there was no synonym for “Newkirk” or even “Peter.” He had to get his name out correctly, and the dread of being unable to do so felt like a dark, shadowy wall towering over him. He was afraid to start climbing, and he was angry that everyone else seemed to be able to scramble over it with ease. The result was a toxic brew of anxiety, fear, envy and fury every time he met new people.

“We worked it out so Carter would introduce you,” Hogan said gently. “I’m a little surprised he didn’t jump in.”

“He didn’t get a chance to do, Sir. I made up a different name. I j-j-j-just don’t want to face them again and have to explain who I really am.”

“You gave them a different name?” Hogan said. He didn’t mean to sound as stunned as he looked, but now he was really bewildered.

Newkirk nodded. “A’s are easy, ssso when I got stuck on my name I blurted out ‘A-Alex Alcott.’ Carter looked at me like I was mad, but he didn’t saying nothing about it. I wanted to explain it to him after we lll-lll-llleft, but I couldn’t fffind the words.”

He managed to look even more frustrated and miserable as he struggled with the L-sound. Even though he didn’t stammer over it often, it sounded wet and lispy whenever he did, and Newkirk hated that more than anything.

Hogan, meanwhile, was puzzling over this information. “So you didn’t go to play baseball because …”

“Well, everyone in Barracks 24 thinks I have a different name. Carter knows I lied and he won’t even ask me about it, but nobody here knows I did, and… well, it’s a mmmmesss and I don’t know how to untangle it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Carter could feel himself dangling, like he was lying in a hammock swinging in the breeze on his parents’ back porch. But instead of a gentle sway, he felt the grime of a wooden floor at his fingertips. And instead of a fresh breeze coming off the Plains, he was inhaling his grandfather’s chair, a mixture of farmwork, tobacco, and pinion wood burning in a cast iron stove. Basically sweat and smoke, he thought with a smirk as he pushed himself up to sit. He knew exactly where he was.

It was quiet in the barracks. He could hear a gentle snore a few feet away from him. His eyes didn’t have to find the source for his ears to know that was LeBeau, sleeping off another late night, just like he had. It was unusual for Louis to sleep during the day, but they had run themselves ragged last night.

Everyone else was out, except… except for the two voices he heard coming from the Colonel’s quarters. Low and unmistakable. The Colonel was having another one of his talks with Newkirk. There was no other reason for them to shut the door—no discussion of a mission would need to happen one-on-one, at least not this far in advance of departure.

What had Newkirk called himself yesterday? Alex Alcott. That was just weird, Carter thought as he got to his feet to pour himself a cup of the sludge in the coffee pot on the stove. And embarrassing, Carter thought as he sat down. Why would he make up a name? He didn’t know what to say to Newkirk after that. It was hard to know what was going on in that guy’s head sometimes.

Except he did know one thing. Newkirk had put up a fight about going over to meet the “new blokes,” as he called them, in Barracks 23 and 24. It wasn’t as if they had a choice; the two of them had been dispatched by the Colonel to size up the new arrivals and gather any useful information. A group of forty men couldn’t be brought into the operation immediately; they needed to find out whose skills would be of benefit and develop a plan for integrating those guys into the team.

They’d done this before, just not on such a large scale. But as 1944 dragged on, there had been a big jump in the number of Allies captured over Europe. LuftStalag 13 was getting crowded. Instead of turning up in twos and threes, POWs were now arriving by the truckload.

The ballooning camp population had made Newkirk nervous. He wasn’t afraid of the other airmen. He was afraid of himself, afraid that he would say or do something embarrassing and that they would think he was stupid.

Carter pondered that thought as he studied the crack that was forming near the rim of his coffee mug. He could give lessons on feeling stupid and making a fool of himself; he did it more than any other man in camp. The difference between him and Newkirk was that he’d decided a long time ago to let it roll off his back. So what, he told himself. He knew who he was. And as long as he was honest and true to himself, other people’s opinions didn’t really matter.

Somehow he didn’t think Newkirk had ever gotten that message.

**XXX**

One minute LeBeau was bundled tight, cozy and warm under a layer of downy quilts, breathing in lavender and starched sheets; the next moment, he was untucking his legs and noticing the new lumps that had formed in his feeble excuse for a mattress.

LeBeau didn’t want to stretch, because that would be admitting he was awake, and admitting he was awake would mean he was in Stalag 13, and not in the room he shared with his brother in the spacious family flat he’d grown up in. He had moved out before the war, of course, and Henri had too, but the room was still theirs. Louis had married, divorced, and settled into his own, smaller flat. But when he dreamt of comfort and safety, his mind always conjured up his clean, crisp childhood bed and the lavender of his mother’s perfume.

The ashy, bitter smell of burnt coffee assaulted his nostrils. LeBeau sighed. He worked hard to keep that coffee pot clean, and every time _this_ happened it needed another thorough scrub. It was Pierre’s turn, he decided. He drank his fair share of the coffee, and was careless about putting it back on the stove when the pot was empty. He’d told him half a dozen times to refill the pot with water to boil away the debris, but he never listened. He did know how to put on _un peu d’huile de coude_ and clean the pot, though.

He got to his feet and saw Carter at the table. He looked around and realized they were alone.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“The last thing I remember is Olsen punching me in the arm and asking me if I wanted to play shortstop. So I’m guessing they’re playing baseball,” Carter said with a smile. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, lifting his mug.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking it. Isn’t it bitter?” LeBeau shook his head.

“Isn’t it supposed to be?” Carter replied, staring into the mug. “It is a little muddy, I guess. But it’s better than nothing.”

“Did Newkirk go to play baseball?” It seemed unlikely, but LeBeau had to ask. “Because he’s cleaning this pot.”

“No, he’s in with the Colonel,” Carter said, tipping his head.

LeBeau turned to concentrate on the murmurings coming from behind Colonel’s door. Yes, he heard them now. “That’s never a good sign,” he said.

“Not usually, no,” Carter said. “Either he’s in trouble or he’s, you know, kind of a mess.”

LeBeau heaved out a sigh. Yes, that was accurate. “Or both,” he said. “I wonder what he did this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LeBeau says Newkirk knows how to "put on a little elbow oil," which is the same as "use some elbow grease."


	3. Chapter 3

Hogan’s door opened, and Newkirk emerged, hands in pocket and head down. LeBeau took one look and decided it was not the moment to ask him to clean the coffeepot. He put it aside for the time being and watched with concern as Newkirk sank onto the bench and lit a cigarette.

Newkirk looked up and gave LeBeau a weak smile, then flicked his eyes over to Carter and did the same. “Did you both get a good rest?” he asked.

“Very good,” LeBeau said. “I dreamed I was home in a pile of pillows.”

“I thought I was swinging in a hammock. What do you dream of when you think of home, Newkirk?”

LeBeau winced; Newkirk snorted. Carter didn’t know any better.

Newkirk shrugged and searched for an acceptable response. It probably wouldn’t do to mention the stale smell of urine in a ragged mattress shared by three boys, or the terrifying thud of his father’s drunken footfall late at night, or the whisper-thin, tatty blankets that barely fought the autumn’s chill and did even less in winter. Or the nights he’d spent on damp, dirty streets, huddled in a doorway.

“Mavis, mostly,” he said. “Curling up next to her to fffffall asleep when I was sm-small.” He wished he hadn’t outgrown her because he missed her arms holding him safe through the night.

“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?” LeBeau asked softly. Pierre was aching; he could see it.

Newkirk knew in that instant that LeBeau understood how low he was feeling. He could always tell; he was a lot like Mavis that way. “That would be very nice,” he replied.

The absence of a rejoinder about Frenchmen making English tea told LeBeau he was right.

**XXX**

Fifteen minutes later, Newkirk was nursing a mug full of hot, milky, sweet tea and chatting softly with his friends. Suddenly, Garlotti and Olsen came breezing through the door, glistening with sweat, grubby with dirt, and bubbling with congeniality. A new friend was with them.

“We’ve got a stack of _Baseball Magazine_ ,” Garlotti said, flipping up the lid of the footlocker that was stored under the bunk he and Olsen shared. “There’s one in here with Rip Sewell and Frankie Frisch on the cover. I can’t believe you’re a Pirates fan, man, but we’re going to let you borrow some anyway. A cigarette gets you any two for a week.” Their footlocker full of American sports magazine was a brisk little business for the duo.

“Great, thanks,” said the new guy, a sandy-haired American flyer in a ratty t-shirt and fatigues with a wiry build like Olsen and Carter. He stood back and looked around before his eyes landed a couple of familiar faces at the table.

“Hey, Carter! Alcott! How are you doing?”

“Who?” Garlotti asked.

“How are you doing, Flynn?” Carter asked, getting to his feet and blocking Newkirk from the new POW’s view. “You let us know if you need anything, OK? I mean other than baseball magazines, because obviously you figured out where those are. There’s a quartermaster store and they might have another t-shirt for you, or…”

“Thanks, Carter, I’ll keep that in mind,” Flynn said. He peered around him to the man who was sitting at the table, fidgeting with the hems of his sleeves. “How’s it going, Alcott?”

Silence.

“You’re Alcott, right?” he continued, moving around to Carter’s side so he could face Newkirk. “You and Carter came over to talk with us yesterday? I’m Bill Flynn.” He stuck out his hand.

“No. You’re mmmmistaking me for ss-ssomeone else,” Newkirk said.

The visitor snorted. “No, pal, it’s you. Alex Alcott, that’s who you said you were, right Carter?”

Carter would blurt out the truth, so Newkirk had to jump in.

“You probably misheard. I said my nnnname was P-P-P-P, P-P-P-P…” He went on for an agonizingly long time. Flynn’s jaw was hanging open, Garlotti was shifting from foot to foot, and Olsen appeared to be intently focused on the condition of his fingernails. Newkirk kept sputtering until he finally looked over at Carter in a silent plea for help.

“His name’s Peter Newkirk. Saying his name is the hardest thing for him because he stutters,” Carter explained. “Talking is easier for him once he gets to know you.”

“It’s OK, man. I remember you said you stuttered,” Flynn said. “Sorry to upset you. I could swear you said Alex Alcott, though.”

“There’s nobody in camp by that name,” Olsen said, looking quizzically at Newkirk. He had lowered his gaze and was biting his lip.

“OK, well, I’ll see you around,” Flynn said. He headed out the door much more subdued than when he arrived.

“What the heck was that all about, Newkirk?” Olsen demanded. “Who’s Alex Alcott?”

Newkirk lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. He inhaled deeply, then took another puff and blew out a smoke ring. “No idea, mate,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

More men trickled back into the barracks over the next hour, and Newkirk could feel their eyes burning into him. Flynn must have talked.

He slipped down into the tunnel to escape their gaze. His sewing room was a refuge. There were two pairs of Heer uniform trousers to cut out from blankets that had been scraped down to the texture of flannel. He sharpened his scissors and set down to work.

Newkirk didn’t notice LeBeau until he was practically at his elbow. He jumped. “Blimey, Louis, you gave me a ffffrright,” he said.

“Sorry, _mon pote_ ,” LeBeau said. “Biscuit?” He handed a round wafer over to Newkirk.

“Rich Tea,” Newkirk sighed happily. “Thanks, mate.” Through a stuffed mouth, he asked, “Where’d you get it?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” LeBeau ribbed him.

Newkirk grinned back. “Didn’t have to. My mouth was never full.”

“I traded razor blades for biscuits,” LeBeau said, maintaining a light air despite the twinge of sadness that Newkirk's comment provoked. No, his mouth had never been full, because his belly hadn't been either. He had once confided to LeBeau that he joined the RAF for the regular meals, new clothes, and reliable shelter. “Now tell me what is going on and you can have another one.”

“Blimey, Louis, you don’t half mess about, do you? Stuff me with biscuits and demand to know secrets,” Newkirk replied. “Nothing’s going on.”

“No, of course not. Not with you. But what about Alex Alcott?”

The air went out of Newkirk at that point, and he sat there, sad and embarrassed. LeBeau could see his friend’s cheeks flush and he felt like a brute for having asked so pointedly, but Newkirk never made anything easy.

“It, it was st-stupid mistake, Louis. I couldn’t say my name.”

“Yes?”

“… So I said a name that was easier,” Newkirk replied miserably. 

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t say MY name!” Newkirk snapped. “Did I stammer just now?”

“No, you spoke very clearly,” LeBeau said calmly. “It still doesn’t make sense to me. I’m sorry. Help me understand.”

Newkirk picked up the scissors he’d been using to cut the trousers just to have something to throw down. He slammed them fiercely onto the table where the fabric was spread out. “How c-c-c-can I make you understand wh-wh-when I don’t even understand myself?” he said plaintively.

LeBeau moved closer to Newkirk and pulled him to his chest. “ _Chut, chut_ ,” he said. “It’s alright. Just do your best to explain so I can help you. You know I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“I know that,” Newkirk mumbled into LeBeau’s khaki shirt. The Frenchman had stripped his sweater off because the tunnels were warm this time of year, and he could feel a wet spot growing on his chest. He held his friend tight until he was ready to pull away.

Newkirk finally did pull back, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hands and unwilling to look at LeBeau. ‘Stupid, stupid,” he muttered.

“Stop that,” LeBeau said. “There is nothing remotely stupid about you. Some things are just hard for you, liking making an entire suit would be hard for me. Tell me one step at a time, what happened?”

He recounted the story he’d already told to Colonel Hogan. “I was stuck, Louis. Tw-tw-twenty pairs of eyes were staring at me and I bloody well had got to say sssssomething. So I just said the first thing that came to mind.”

“Has this happened before?”

“Yes. It’s how I tried coffee for the first time,” Newkirk said.

“I’m sorry—explain that,” LeBeau said.

“I went into a shop to order toast and a cuppa tea, but I got stuck on the T- sound. Then I noticed they had coffee too, so I ordered that instead.”

“So instead of getting what you wanted, you got what you could pronounce?” LeBeau was trying to sound matter of fact, but he felt incredulous.

“Yes. That happens a lot, actually,” Newkirk said. “Didn’t get any toast, neither.”

LeBeau studied his friend’s face. He sounded as if he was still hungry for that toast and tea. He wondered how many compromises he had made in his life to avoid stammering. It seemed like a hard way to live. He handed him the biscuit he'd been holding back and watched him devour it. Then he thought hard about what to say next, before realizing that the only solution was both difficult and simple.

“I find the truth helps,” LeBeau said.

A familiar voice chimed in. “I find that too,” Colonel Hogan said from where he was leaning into the doorway. “And we can all do this together.”


	5. Chapter 5

  
“You’re going to have to come clean with them, Newkirk,” Hogan said.

Carter’s face appeared behind Hogan’s shoulder. He had been listening too. Great, Newkirk thought. He had an audience.

“How am I going to do _that_?” Newkirk responded loudly. “I can’t p-p-possibly, Sir. I couldn’t stand in front of them and say my bleeding _name_. How can I say I lll-lll-llllied?”

Newkirk hid his face behind his hand. There was that sound again, all wet and lispy and embarrassing. He could feel LeBeau’s hand in the small of his back, and it helped ground him, but he felt like he was spinning anyway.

Hogan took a step closer and took him by the arm. “You didn’t lie, Newkirk,” he said.

“Of course I did! I gave a fffffalse name instead of my r-real one!” He was barking at Colonel Hogan. Despite his growing frustration, or maybe because of it, he stepped toward the Colonel and let him wrap an arm around his shoulder.

“You weren’t trying to deceive anyone, Newkirk,” Hogan said, looking him straight in the eye. “You were trying to finish the sentence.”

“That’s not a lie, Pierre,” LeBeau added gently.

“Of course it is. It’s the ssssame thing,” Newkirk snapped. He stayed by the Colonel but hugged himself tightly. Hogan’s hand landed on his shoulder, and rubbed.

“No,” Carter said firmly. “It’s not the same thing at all. You weren’t pretending to be someone else, Newkirk. You just panicked because you couldn’t breathe.”

Hogan and LeBeau exchanged looks of concern. “You couldn’t breathe?” LeBeau asked.

“I could at first, when I was just trying to say P-P-P-Peter, like that,” Newkirk said. “But I got stuck on the sound so I pushed and pushed and pushed and no sound or air came out and I felt like I was strangling.” He stopped and hung his head, looking ashamed. “That’s why I said ‘Alex Alcott,’ because I needed to breathe and I knew I wouldn’t stammer over an A-sound. It was so st-stupid.”

“Peter, you need to be able to breathe,” Colonel Hogan said. “You did the right thing.”

Newkirk looked at him, uncertain. “I did?”

“Yes, of course,” Hogan said. “And everything else can be fixed.”

“It can?” Newkirk asked.

“Absolutely,” Hogan said. “You don’t even have to face them if you don’t want to. I can explain everything.”

**XXX**

Newkirk thought about skipping it, but he made the decision to accompany Colonel Hogan and Carter to Barracks 24. He told him over their evening meal. Kinch, who’d been otherwise engaged most of the day, listened with interest as the men discussed what to do next.

“You don’t have to come if you’re overwhelmed about talking in front of people, Newkirk,” Hogan said. “Carter and I can handle 20 of our own guys, right Carter?”

“You betcha, Sir,” Carter replied.

“No, it wouldn’t be right,” Newkirk said. “I still feel like I lied, even if it wasn’t on purpose.”

“You gave a made-up name?” Kinch asked.

“Yeah,” Newkirk admitted.

“Because you were worried you couldn’t say your name. You panicked, like Carter said. “

“Yeah,” Newkirk agreed. His head was down low again.

“Was anybody injured by what you said? Did it cause harm?”

“I don’t think so,” Newkirk said.

“Then at the very worst, it was a white lie, Pete, but I don’t even think it was that,” Kinch said. “For a lie to be serious, it has to be a grave matter, which it wasn’t. You have to know in the moment that what you’re doing is wrong, which you didn’t, and you have to have full consent of the will, which I definitely don’t think you did.”

“My son, the theologian,” LeBeau said, rapping Kinch on the back.

Everyone laughed except Newkirk, who looked at Kinch and LeBeau, completely baffled.

“You have to intend to do wrong for it to be wrong, Pete,” Kinch explained. “You weren’t trying to deceive anyone.”

“No,” Newkirk said. “I wasn’t. I just couldn’t breathe.”

“Well, you’ve gotta breathe,” Hogan asserted. There was agreement all around on that point.

**XXX**

After supper and just before rollcall, Hogan, Carter and Newkirk trooped over to Barracks 24 to clear the air. Hogan took a place at the head of the table. Newkirk stood between him and Carter.

“Men, I need your attention,” Colonel Hogan began as the prisoners of Barracks 24 milled around. “First of all, welcome to Stalag 13. Over the coming days, I’ll be meeting with you individually to brief you on some roles and responsibilities I’d like you take on.”

The room murmured in agreement. They’d arrived barely a week earlier, but they were restless and eager for things to do.

“You met a couple members of my command team yesterday, and we need to clear up some confusion. This is Sergeant Carter and this,” he said, draping an arm around the Englishman—“is Corporal Newkirk. They’re both critical members of my team, and if you can’t find me, you should look for one of them.”

“I thought you said your name was Alcott,” a freckle-faced man in the back row said.

“Yeah, I heard there was something fishy about you,” a blond-headed man standing just three feet from Hogan said, elbowing his neighbor. Standing behind him, Bill Flynn rolled his eyes.

 _Oh no_ , Newkirk thought. _Flynn’s exasperated with me_.

Everyone started asking questions at once until Hogan waved his hands up and down to silence them. “Quiet, men. Newkirk has the floor. Be patient. He might need a moment to get started.”

Newkirk looked out at everyone, pressing his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep worry at bay. Slowly, he began.

“Yes, well, you see, m-m-my name is P-P-P-Peter Newkirk, and I st-stammer, as you can t-t-tell. Wh-when you asked me my name yesterday, I p-panicked and said something else to av-v-void saying my actual name.” Newkirk looked exhausted by the explanation. He turned anxiously to Carter with a nod.

Carter smiled his big easy smile, and jumped in. “I didn’t know much about stuttering, or stammering, until I met Newkirk. It can take him a little extra time to get his words out, but he’ll get there. So don’t rush him or talk over him. He’s actually a really talkative guy once he gets going, but names are hard for him, and his own name is the hardest of all.”

“Don’t ask why,” Newkirk shrugged. “It j-j-j-just is.”

“You just said it though,” Flynn said. “You said your name.”

“I, um, I, um, I did a run-up to it. I p-put words in front of it and that made it easier,” Newkirk said. “I sort of have to tr-trick myself sometimes. Sssorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Flynn asked. “You probably couldn’t help it, right?”

“R-r-right,” Newkirk said. His look remained skeptical. He wasn’t quite sure about this Flynn chap.

“OK, then we’re good, right guys?” Flynn said. “Remember, it’s Newkirk, and he’s one of the Colonel’s key men.”

There was agreement all around, and just like that, men were reaching out their hands to shake with Newkirk, Carter and Hogan. The Colonel took his time listening to the new men’s concerns. Out of the side of his eye, he watched as Sergeant Flynn confidently introduced one man after another to both Newkirk and Carter and smoothed their conversations. Hogan smiled. He had found himself a new barracks chief, and he knew which man he was going to brief first about the special mission underway at LuftStalag 13.

As their visit wound down, Hogan pulled Flynn aside.

“Thank you, Sergeant. You showed some leadership tonight. You made what could have been a difficult situation for Corporal Newkirk a lot better.”

“I appreciate that, Sir. There was some gossip going around that Newkirk had tried to trick people, but Olsen told me it wasn't true. I did my best to shut it down, but it's a good thing you guys took the bull by the horns. I figured it had to be wrong. You know, the whole time we were playing baseball this afternoon, Olsen and Garlotti kept mentioning this guy Newkirk as if they were pretty sure I’d met him. I couldn’t figure it out. But all I knew was that they thought very highly of the guy, and I think pretty highly of them, even if they are Yankees fans.”

“Who’s your team, Sergeant?” Hogan asked with a smile.

“Pittsburgh Pirates, Sir,” Flynn replied.

“I root for the Cleveland Indians myself,” Hogan replied. “Are you a Steelers fan?”

“Oh, you bet, Sir,” Flynn grinned. 

“Well, we’ve got a professional football team coming up in Cleveland called the Browns. Give us a year or two, and you Steelers fans are going to have to watch your backs,” Hogan said with a smirk. “Stop by and see me tomorrow around 0900, Flynn. I’ve got a job for you.”

**XXX**

“There, all better,” LeBeau said as he put a cup of tea in front of Newkirk. Rollcall had ended and the men had a few hours before lights out.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Newkirk said. “Are there any more biscuits?”

“Maybe one or two for you,” LeBeau said.

Carter sidled on the bench next to Newkirk, took a biscuit out of his hand, and took a bite. “That’s so bland,” he said, handing it back to the offended Englishman. “We need to introduce you to Oreos.”

“What, the bird?”

“No, not the bird…”

“The baseball team,” Kinch teased.

“The cookie,” Hogan clarified.

“I’m sure you mean biscuit,” Newkirk said definitively, crunching down on a Rich Tea.

“Ah, no, a biscuit’s a totally different thing, Newkirk,” Carter said. “It’s like a bread roll, sort of, only better. They’re real simple to make. Just flour, butter, milk, baking powder, and salt, at least how that’s my mom does it.”

“Light and airy, fluffy and flaky,” Kinch said dreamily.

“And an outer crust with a satisfying bite,” Hogan said. “Eaten straight from the oven.”

“Oh, that’s not a biscuit at all, you see,” Newkirk said. “What we’re talking about when we mean biscuit is a Jaffa cake, or a digestive, or better yet, a chocolate digestive, or a Bourbon crème.”

“I’m interested in the Bourbon, Newkirk,” LeBeau interjected. “But I want to hear more about the light, fluffy, airy, crunchy…”

“Flaky,” Carter said. “Definitely flaky.”

“Just like you,” Newkirk said. He got a smack across the head from LeBeau for his troubles.

Carter was right. Put him with the right company, and Newkirk could talk and talk and talk. He just need some confidence, and a little back up now and then.

The day had been exhausting, and despite the infusion of tea, he was the first to run out of steam. He was snoring with his head on the table, so Kinch and Hogan hauled him over to Carter’s bunk for the night.

“I guess you’ll have to sleep up top, Carter,” Kinch said.

Carter sized up his options. It had been a tough, lonely day for Newkirk. He glanced at LeBeau, who knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Go ahead,” LeBeau said. “He won’t mind. I’m sure of it.”

When Newkirk woke the next morning, he noticed the warmth first, and the weight of an arm around his ribs, a hand splayed across his stomach. If he closed his eyes just a moment longer, he could imagine he was still small, and snuggling with Mavis. He knew it wasn’t her, and that was alright. Because right now, if he couldn't have his sister, he was glad to have a brother wrapped around him, reminding him that everything would be just fine.


End file.
